


Blood and Ice

by Illegible_Scribble



Series: 31 Days of Frodo/Sam, 2018 [16]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brief look at a surgery, But there's actually no kink, Comfort, Established Relationship, Flight to the Ford, Fluff, Hurt, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Mid-Quest, Mildly graphic depictions of violence?, Nightmares, Rivendell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 10:06:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16324166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble
Summary: Sam watches in horror as Frodo falls on the opposite bank of the Ford, and later wears a brave face during the operation to retrieve the shard of the Morgul blade from his wound.While Sam throughout consciously has the comfort of his fellow hobbits and Strider, Frodo suffers through a trial of a cold and agonizing nightmare, alone.





	Blood and Ice

**Author's Note:**

> I think of it as a potential sequel/follow-up to [A Secret Unmasked](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16304534), but reading that one isn't necessary to read this one. Adds the option for a little backstory filler, but that's it.
> 
> Inspired _very_ loosely by Day 16's prompt for [Kinktober](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/112710), Sensory Deprivation. However, there's no kink or sexual content to be found in this work. T rating is only because I'm not sure how to generally judge the level of physical pain described.

_With his last failing senses Frodo heard cries, and it seemed to him that he saw, beyond the Riders that hesitated on the shore, a shining figure of white light; and behind it ran small shadowy forms waving flames, that flared red in the grey mist that was falling over the world._  
_The black horses were filled with madness, and leaping forward in terror they bore their riders into the rushing flood. Their piercing cries were drowned in the roaring of the river as it carried them away._

Frodo could feel himself falling – sliding from the great horse's back, down to an endless abyss far below, as the light and sky went hurtling away above him.

He fell, down, down, _down_ , into a dark and dense fog that enveloped the world and all light in it – and then at last with a roar in his ears, something broke his fall.

Into a torrent of water he plummeted, with such force it felt as though he'd been slammed through a window pane, and like a boulder he sank ever down and deeper. Shafts of light reappeared far above the surface, and in distorted waves came down to him as they flickered and failed. He vainly tried to claw his way back to the surface of the frigid water – he was a Brandybuck, practically raised in the Brandywine; he knew how to swim – but his left arm was cold and lifeless, offering him no aid.

He tried to scream, but the moment he opened his mouth, his lungs were filled with water and began to burn with cold. He felt the vicious current shifting around him, and to his horror realized it was utterly dark, and a wave was surging around and over him.

The torrent first heaved him upwards, before it came crashing down again, forcing him ever further into the endless black and icy water.

He could not breathe, he could not see, and all he could think and feel were _Cold, cold, so so cold._

 

–

 

“FRODO!” Sam's shriek might have carried to the hither shore, had the roar of the ford's swelling waves not drowned it out. The last he saw of his beloved – before the water took life, and rode down the Black Riders without mercy – was Frodo struck dumb, and falling, his sword broken.

Strider gave them each a flaming branch to wield as they charged towards the bank where Glorfindel already stood, and with fierce cries from Man and Hobbit alike, they brandished their fire, bringing the Ringwraiths' horses to a blind panic, and sending them leaping into the water.

The roar of the waves consumed every sound in the forest – even the screams of the horses and shrill shrieks of the Black Riders – and left a silence so great in its wake, it was deafening.

Sam hardly stopped moving from the time they'd cornered the last of the Riders, to the end of the flood. The moment the water seemed even slightly settled, he dropped his torch into the mud of the bank, charging forward to ford the river, forgetting he couldn't swim and thinking nothing of its depth. Frodo was lying face-down in the mud, and though Asfaloth stood faithfully over him, the fear that gripped Sam's heart drove him to reach his master's side as quickly as possible.

As far as Sam could think – which for his terror and desperation, was not far – this couldn't happen. Frodo had come so far – _they_ had come so far – and he couldn't go dying now! After Weathertop and those dreadful two weeks, and- and the Barrow, Bree, and most of all at Crickhollow! Crickhollow, where... where they'd promised one another they'd come back, and make it a home together.

Sam was up to his waist in the river before Strider grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. “He's hurt!” Sam shrieked, kicking wildly and struggling as Strider hauled him up onto Bill's back.

In a powerful and beautiful voice, Glorfindel called something Sam did not understand across the river, and in moments a stream of Elvish riders came galloping down the path on the other shore. “Sam,” said Strider, grabbing a dumbfounded Merry and setting him behind Sam, “he is, but there's nothing more we can do. I'll help you across the Ford – quickly – but Frodo is in Elrond's hands, now. He'll be all right.”

Sam sputtered, tears making tracks down the grime on his cheeks as he struggled to protest. Glorfindel forded the river on his own, the water swirling up to his waist as he came to his kindred, who were inspecting the fallen Frodo.

Meanwhile, Strider hauled Pippin up on his back, and with a hand to spare, lead Bill across the river after Glorfindel, bearing Merry and Sam. The water was chilling and swirled around their knees, and Bill whinnied and back stepped as they went deeper, but with a few murmured words from Strider, was persuaded onward.

To Sam's mixed relief and distress, by the time they'd reached the shore, Frodo had already been picked up by another Elf and borne up the hill on horseback. Glorfindel was talking with yet a different Elf as he soothed the heaving Asfaloth, and turned to Strider when they arrived.

In a veritable blur of Elvish voices that soon switched to Westron for their sake, Pippin was taken from Strider, as Sam and Merry were pulled off of Bill, and set in front of three Elves with their own horses. “We'll be with you shortly,” Glorfindel promised, “you will be carried with all haste to Imladris.”

Sam could not even count the number of Elves about them, beyond Glorfindel and their three riders; several were conversing with the former and Strider, while one took Bill's lead. Sam could gather Strider and Glorfindel were explaining everything, and offering their best direction to care for the hobbits.

The Elves assigned to them offered pleasant enough greetings – if not strained – before helping the hobbits mount up, and taking off up the hill with them. Sam looked back with vision blurred by tears, to see Strider and Glorfindel riding after them on fresh horses – not far behind, another Elf was riding at a trot, leading Bill behind her.

The ride was brief in reality, but for the stress and terror in Sam's heart, it stretched to an eternity. The deciduous forest in autumn all about them might have been beautiful, were he not lost in his own fears and grief – but he was attentive enough to spot the first signs of Rivendell proper.

It was a great sprawling place – a town, really – made of hewn stone and wood in such magnificent spirals and arches – where trees grew inside and along many of the buildings, as if it were all intended to be a part of nature itself. A handful of Sam's tears were spent in awe at its beauty, and also for the bravery and beauty of the Elves that aided them.

The hooves of their horses began to clack and echo upon the ground as they rode into the entry plaza – paved with smooth stones and mosaics – where they came to a skidding stop outside the tallest arch Sam could see. Their riders dismounted first, before helping them down – and Sam nearly fell to his knees once his feet were on the ground, for he was sick to his core with fright.

The Elf with him helped him stand, and helped guide him – alongside Merry and Pippin – towards the arch, which lead into a magnificent, open-air sort of hall. A tall Elf with dark hair stood waiting for them, with a much smaller and curious figure by his side. Sam could not believe his watery eyes as they drew closer. “Mister Bilbo?!”

He looked much older now, than he had when Sam had last seen him – some seventeen years ago, now, at that splendid Birthday Party – great loops of wrinkles were etched on his face, and his hair was thin, and white as snow; but it was old Bilbo. On any other occasion, Sam would've been overjoyed to see him – part of him was, of course, but was quickly settled by the anxious fear on Bilbo's face.

“Greetings, Master Hobbits,” said the elf at Bilbo's side, “I am Erestor, Chief Councillor of Lord Elrond. I do not doubt you're anxious to see your friend, Frodo, but please calm yourselves with the knowledge he's being overseen by the Lord himself, and the wizard Gandalf.”

Pippin was the first to come out of their collective stupor. “Gandalf's here?” he squeaked, oblivious to Aragorn and Glorfindel's arrival beside them.

Their Elf chaperons departed with a few words to lead the horses away, leaving them in Erestor's hands.

“Oh, he's been here some days, now,” said Bilbo, wringing his hands, “and mark me, I've been glad to see him, as I'm glad to see you youngsters. Of course, I'd be gladder were it not-” his hands seized one another with such a grip, his knuckles turned as white as his hair, “-not for- oh, Frodo.” he struggled to swallow a sob, as Erestor gave direction to Aragorn and Glorfindel, and they hurried off to speak with Elrond and Gandalf.

Erestor placed a comforting hand on Bilbo's shoulder, and made a welcoming gesture to the other hobbits. “I've been instructed to see to the welfare of each of you, namely food and clean clothes.”

Sam stepped forward to protest – to insist he wanted to see Frodo – but Bilbo raised a shaking hand to quiet him. “We know, lad; I'm desperate to see him, too, but it's no good while Elrond and Gandalf are looking him over. When they're done, yes, but we're the best help to Frodo right now, if we leave them to their business.”

For the first time in his life, Sam _reluctantly_ bowed to Bilbo's superior wisdom (never before had he hesitated), and closed his jaw. Merry and Pippin came forward to squeeze Bilbo's hand and hug him, professing in a stream of honesty and fear how glad they were to see him, and how scared they were for Frodo and everything that had happened.

Bilbo beckoned Sam forward after the others had stepped away, and didn't waste time with a hand squeeze, instead pulling him right into a hug. “Ah, Sam-lad, you have grown since I last saw you. It's good to see you again, in spite of- you know. Come now, let's follow Erestor and get something in all of you, eh? Tell me of all the Shire-talk you can think of as we go.”

So it was that the four hobbits were lead to a small nook by a great window that overlooked the valley, and were served a small meal to help calm their nerves. It was mainly middling small-talk they made, try as they all did to speak enthusiastically of anything besides Frodo.

After they'd eaten all their nervous stomachs could handle, they were each lead to a room for a quick wash and change of clothes, before they gathered again in the nook, huddled together on a large sofa and holding one another's hands, waiting for news. Erestor was with them, and was the first to hear approaching footsteps, which turned out to be Glorfindel's. He knelt before the hobbits, and told them of Gandalf and Elrond's evaluations.

“Considering the circumstances,” he explained, “your friend is in remarkable shape. But, the circumstances are dire – the tip of the blade that wounded him is lodged in his shoulder, and following its fell purpose to find his heart.

“Lord Elrond and Gandalf fear it won't be long before it finds its target, and by then it will be too late. They plan to operate before sundown, to remove it and cleanse the wound of all evil traces.”

There was a collective gasp and new wave of tears from the hobbits. “You're- going to cut into him?” asked Bilbo, doing his best to sound composed, and failing. “To get it out?”

“Lord Elrond will, yes.” Glorfindel replied. “There's no other way, for the wound has already sealed closed – and the shard is, in any case, no longer in the original wound. A cut must be made to remove it.

“At the moment, Frodo is being cleaned and readied for the operation, and for a short while, as an anesthetic takes effect, you will be able to see him. After which, Elrond and Gandalf will begin the search for the shard.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Merry asked.

For the first time, Glorfindel offered them a smile. “As I said, though the circumstances are dire, he is in remarkable condition for them. He's proven very resistant so far, and Lord Elrond has assured me he'll come through the operation. He's likely to be weak for some days afterward, but he will recover.”

The hobbits breathed a collective sigh of relief, nearly melting into one another as a good deal of the day's tension fled them.

Another Elf peered round the corner, then, gesturing to Glorfindel, before the latter rose and looked down at the hobbits. “The anesthetic's been given, and you have a short while to see him. Come.”

The four nearly tripped over one another to stand and follow after the golden-haired elf. Sam's knees were the weakest of them all – even weaker than Bilbo's, at 130 years old – and his stomach was in knots. Though he'd been here but an hour or two, perhaps, and he implicitly trusted Elrond from Bilbo's tales, Sam was terrified for the harm that had already come to Frodo, and what harm had still yet to be wrought, especially if something should go wrong.

He was terrified of losing him. Initially, for Frodo was his master, and Sam had vowed to both his father and Gandalf he wouldn't leave him.

Though, far more dear to him than those vows, was that only within the month had he and Frodo professed their feelings. They had only just begun to love, without any hesitations nor barriers. Because Frodo was now the dearest thing to Sam in all the world, holding no power to alter his fate was the most petrifying feeling Sam had ever known.

 

–

 

Frodo was still lost in a torrent of water, but now it seemed he'd found a floor and the surface both at once, and that made it all the worse. Waves crashed over him again and again, pounding and tearing into his skin until he was left naked, frozen and battered in a riverbed lined with broken rocks. Whenever his skin broke the surface, the air was even colder than the water, and the constant shift of temperature was murder.

Over and over again, he was beaten this way and that by the merciless waves engulfing him, dashing him against the rocks to break and slash his skin open, while needles of cold pierced his every pore as the chill of the water seemed to creep into his very skin, pressing ever, ever inwards.

It felt his own ribs were strangling his lungs and suffocating his heart. Breathing grew harder as he was thrown about against the rocks and drowned by the unceasing tides, and his left arm dangled still useless at his side, unable to shield him from the water or brace him from the riverbed.

It was almost utterly dark as he fought an unwinnable fight with the waves – there were times he swore a flicker of light came from somewhere above, and a murmur would reach his ears, that were far sweeter and gentler than the unending roar and crash of the waves. They lasted only moments, before they would disappear, plunging him again into darkness.

A handful of times the chaotic tumult and tumble of sound and water even stopped, and receded, and Frodo could feel various spots of warmth touching his body. Though his left hand was rendered utterly still and almost unfeeling, he could sense a precious few pinpricks of warmth needling the skin. A similar sensation crept more distinctly up his right hand, and there were a dear few moments a warm touch would grace his forehead or cheek.

Once, for a long while, the water stopped completely, leaving Frodo on his bloodied knees, gasping for air as the light above him grew clearer, and the warmth around his hands grew stronger and hotter. He reveled in this brief reprieve, fighting to remember what it felt like to be anywhere but here.

Without warning, the light and warmth both disappeared in an instant, and to his anguished horror, the roar of water began again.

 

–

 

Frodo lay as pale as death on the bed, the coverlet brought up to his chest to partially hide his lack of a shirt. His left arm lay on the comforter, paler than all the rest, while the wound of his shoulder looked like an evil black mound, dark threads spiraling this way and that from its center, following his veins.

A sheen of sweat covered him, and intermittently he twitched – an arm, his head, his torso – and even moaned something weak and indistinct now and again. There were still another two Elves besides Glorfindel in the room, standing a measured distance from the bed, but keeping a watchful eye on Frodo.

Glorfindel nodded to the bed. “You have five minutes, or near enough.”

Sam and Bilbo gathered to Frodo's left side, while Merry and Pippin settled at his right. Four hands held each one of Frodo's, squeezing and stroking them.

Sam could see Frodo's eyes fluttering frantically beneath his eyelids, and gently he touched his cheek. Like his hands, it was cold.

Bilbo shook his head, caring not he wept openly. “My boy,” he said, squeezing Frodo's hand desperately tight, “my dearest lad, what ever have I done to you?”

Pippin was gently stroking Frodo's fingertips with a thumb, and managed to say, “You know if he were awake, he'd tell you it wasn't your fault.”

Bilbo's shoulders sagged, and with one hand he held onto and wept against Sam. “But for my Ring, he wouldn't be here!”

Merry softly placed a hand on Frodo's forehead. “In the end, the Ring's not even yours, Uncle. And so I say, neither is the fault.”

Sam wrapped a tentative arm around Bilbo. “They're right, Sir.” he murmured, “If we're going down to them details, why it's all our faults for not taking better care of him. And you know right enough he wouldn't want us saying or thinking that way.”

There was doubt in Sam's heart that he had authority to say such to Frodo's kin in this way. To a degree he did feel he had some measure of worthiness: since the night at Crickhollow, Frodo and Sam had slept ever in each other's arms. Of which, Merry, Pippin and Fatty Bolger – still safe back in the Shire – knew. However, a sick feeling came over Sam to even consider bringing it up with Bilbo, now.

Sam felt no better to look back at Frodo's face. Even as the sleeping drug worked further on him, and he was at supposed rest, his face was still taut with pain and fear, and he twitched and jerked in his sleep.

For as long as he could, after releasing a more composed Bilbo from his arm, Sam kept one hand over Frodo's, and his other touching Frodo's face.

Several moments after Frodo's eyes grew still at last beneath his lids, and the fearful tension in his body released, the two other Elves rose, and Glorfindel nodded to the hobbits. “It is time.”

Sam obediently stood, scrubbing at his eyes with his sleeve. A surge of desperation came over him, and he stopped midway to the door. “Forgive me, Sirs and Ma'ams, but ain't there some way I can help? I- don't want to leave him.”

The two other Elves looked between one another, before one of them hurried off down a corridor, saying something to Glorfindel on the way. He then said to Sam, as the other three hobbits paused at the threshold, “That will be the decision of Gandalf and Lord Elrond.” he looked down at Sam's fellows. “And the offer is extended to you as well, if you believe you've the stomach, and can stay clear of the way.”

So the hobbits waited still in the room, for the Elf to return. When she did, in her wake was Gandalf – looking older and more haggard than ever, with a grim look to his face – along with another Elf. This one radiated such splendor from his fine face and dark hair, that even to look upon him, Sam's heart was eased by the wisdom he knew was carried in the Elf's mind, and the good and strength of his will.

They all looked upon Elrond Halfelven, Lord of the Last Homely House West of the Sea.

Though the impulse gripped all the hobbits – except Bilbo – to go cluster to Gandalf and rejoice at their reunion, Elrond was first among them all to speak, stilling each of them. “Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck, and Peregrin Took.” he nodded to the appropriate hobbit in turn, and they all were struck to utter silence, to be bestowed his sight, and grace there offered. “You have journeyed long and through many perils, as Frodo has, with only so much rest. I understand you would wish to stay, and it gladdens my heart the Ring-bearer has such friends and kin to him that love him so dearly.

“On several conditions will I allow this. The first, that you must understand the limits of your eyes and will, to withstand what they will bear witness to; there will be blood, and a good deal of it sickly.” Bilbo seemed to grow smaller and paler, leaning heavily on Pippin. “It would be best for us all if you left now, before disturbing the operation by running out in the midst of it, or otherwise greatly displaying distress. Gandalf and I will need all our focus to help him.

“The second is much like the first, that should you stay, there must be as little talk or other disturbance as possible.

“The third, is that if you would stay only in the name of being a faithful friend, and you grow ill at the idea of seeing this, please go now. Frodo will understand, and would not want you to suffer for his sake. He knows well, I believe, the worth of each of you as his loyal companions.”

In the end, Merry and Pippin elected to comfort Bilbo, who most adamantly refused to witness the operation. Sam was the only one stubborn enough to remain, and settled on a stool too large for him, at Frodo's right side.

Strider came in after the others had gone, looking so clean and finely together, Sam now would mistake him for a prince more than a ruffian. “Elrond and Gandalf will see to the majority of this,” he told Sam, pulling up another stool beside him, “but I will help where I can.”

Sam offered the bravest smile he could muster. He felt as glad as he thought he could be, under the circumstances. Gandalf and Lord Elrond were there, and Strider – who had proven his worth with his knowledge of the _athelas_ and getting them here and all – was, too, meaning Frodo was in the best hands of the whole of the realm.

Kettles of steaming water were brought in, with fresh _athelas_ leaves crumbled into them, and as their sweet scent filled their air, it dissipated the weight of the fear and sadness that had filled it.

Elrond and Gandalf both lifted Frodo's left hand several times, inspected his shoulder before swabbing it, and then touched fingers to his face and neck, before at last declaring they were going to begin.

Elrond raised a gleaming blade – smaller and shaped with more specialized purpose in mind – and began the incision into Frodo's shoulder.

 

–

 

The water returned as Frodo feared it would. But this time, it pulverized him with a hundredfold its strength from before, and it was so blisteringly cold he felt it was burning him. He opened his mouth to scream, but only water came out as he hacked and choked – and he could not distinguish his tears from the water that razed his face.

Again and again he was tossed about in this eternal storm, the water growing ever colder and seeping into him until he could feel his body stiffening as it gave in to the elements, making each landing in the water or against the rocks all the more painful.

Soon it lay him hard – with a resounding _crack_ – on his back against the stones, and there he was held paralyzed by fear and cold, hardly able to move his eyes as the water receded around him.

The harsh bellow of a new wave forming swelled in his ears, and to his horror he saw it rising up above him, shaped like a dead king upon a charging horse, the froth of the wave crests setting his crown and horse's mane alight with white fire.

He held aloft a longsword of that same flaming surf, and Frodo for all his will could not move as it bore down upon him – spearing him down to the earth as the sword pierced his shoulder, the horse trampled his lungs, and the rider possessed his mind with terrors beyond the Void of the world.

At last, Frodo screamed, louder than the swell of the waves, as the sword turned to ice and seeped into his very blood, freezing it in his veins and causing them to burst. The cold continued to blaze through him like fire, seizing his muscles and turning all his limbs to inert stone, while racing to his lungs, turning their very walls to ice and causing them to shatter as he struggled to breathe.

Frost coated his throat and flooded his mouth, breaking his teeth as it bored into their cores, and for what moments he still had taste buds, the metallic tang of blood soaked his tongue as every inch of his skin was broken and bled. With each breath he struggled for, the cold froze him more completely, and the crystals of his tears froze to his eyes as hoarfrost spilled over his lips.

The splintered glaciers of his lungs heaved desperately, their edges now jagged and deadly, shifting to pierce his failing heart as he fought and failed to breathe.

He had no lungs, he had no voice. He could not scream, he could not cry – but in his mind, he let loose the most primal howl of utter agony, of such that the world had not known since before the coming of the divine.

 

–

 

Elrond had spoken truly, for there was _so much blood_. At first, Sam had sat in horrified disgust so great, he feared his stomach would turn inside out, as the first incision let flow something that looked worse than blood. It was thick and sludgy, oozing out of the wound when pressure was placed on it – like slugs, Sam thought in revulsion – and black, or a red so dark it looked like pitch.

Neither the Elf Lord nor wizard seemed especially surprised – in fact, their faces remained unmoving and grim throughout. They worked for the most part in utter silence, breaking it only to ask for a tool, or the suggestion of the other.

They lengthened and deepened the incision as they went, prompting more of the sludge to come oozing out – to be quickly wiped away – and over time, they began swabbing at their cuts, and purposely forcing more of it out. After long enough, it began to lighten in color and thin in consistency, until it appeared to be normal blood.

To Sam, the process was marked by a distinct feeling it would never end, as an unceasing stream of blood-soaked swabs were thrown away, more skin was cut, and Frodo looked paler then ever.

An eternity passed – but its end was marked at last by Elond exclaiming to himself, humble but pleased, “Found it.” Several minutes followed, until with a pair of forceps, the shard was held aloft, red and gleaming, and free of Frodo.

Sam wept as it was placed in a dish and set aside, and a liquid that smelled strongly of _athelas_ was used to sanitize the wound, before it was neatly sewn closed. Gandalf was the one to bind it with several layers of cotton and lengths of gauze, before both he and Elrond stood back, wiping sheens of sweat from their brows. “The tip is gone; no trace of it remains, nor the evil it wrought inside him. He shall have a long rest, now, but in some days he will awake. His shoulder will be pained for a while yet, but it will heal.” said Elrond, looking – if it were possible, for an immortal Elf – weary.

Caring nothing for propriety by then, Sam hugged the Lord of Imladris and the wizard both, weeping and thanking them endlessly.

 

–

 

All at once – by a powerful pulse of his heart, perhaps – the cold left him. Then too, the water was gone, and the stone beneath him was there no longer; it was now soft earth, perhaps slightly damp.

Every fiber of him ached, feeling as if each of them individually had been pierced with a lance, but he was alive. He could breathe. He could _see_.

On shaking limbs he stood, feeling like a newborn lamb staggering upright for the first time, and looked about.

He was in a near-empty riverbed, only wet enough to make the blessed earth between his toes slightly muddy. The sky above was overcast, but small shafts of light pierced the clouds intermittently, warming the ground below.

What was not riverbed was a flower-filled meadow to either bank, their green grass and brilliant flowers a vibrant rainbow.

Beyond that, there was nothing else to see, against any horizon. The riverbed stretched on ahead of and behind him, serving as the only likely road.

He started forward, deciding there was no use going back – and he walked for a long, long time. But he was not lonely; somehow, the flowers kept him company, he felt, and they waved so pleasantly whenever a warm breeze came by.

 

–

 

The rest of that night, it was miraculous Frodo hadn't spontaneously become a tissue, for how much he was wept over. He slept soundly, free of twitches or cries, as his cousins, uncle and lover rejoiced over his recovery at his bedside. There was nary a moment one of his hands wasn't being held, or his name on someone's voice.

They all slept together that night, in Frodo's great bed in the infirmary, glad beyond words their adventure had not lead to so horrible a tragedy.

During the two days that followed, Bilbo, Merry and Pippin visited intermittently, while Sam stayed the most near, minding after him where he could. “You've hardly left his side, Gandalf tells me.” Bilbo chuckled, while he and Sam sat around Frodo's bed, on the afternoon following the operation.

“W-well, aye, t'is true.” Sam admitted, ducking his head with a blush. “He's- become right important to me, since you left.” It wasn't quite clear to Sam where he ought to draw the line, of how much he should reveal, of his real closeness to Bilbo's nephew. “And I done promised I wouldn't go leaving him – to me Gaffer, you know, and I expect Gandalf would be mighty upset with me too, if I left him.”

Bilbo gazed at Frodo's sleeping face, and wiped a tear from his own eye. “I'm glad he has you looking after him, Sam-lad. I always felt he'd be needing someone – he's not like me, you know; not so much a mad hermit, and he... loves, more easily than I do.” he looked back up at Sam, sighing. “Mind he looks after you, too, of course. I know you've been trailing after him all these years, but don't let him go leaving you on your own.”

“No, Sir! He ain't never has, and I don't think he ever would.” shyly, Sam interlaced his fingers with those of Frodo's left hand. “We eh- made a sort of promise to one another, you see. No leaving, not for nothing.”

Sam wasn't clear for a long while to what degree Bilbo interpreted his words, but to whatever level, Bilbo – in that moment – was all the same content with them. “Very good, lad. You two are a fine fit for one another.”

That evening, Gandalf had taken Sam aside, and sat down to speak with him. “Now, Samwise, I understand your loyalty to Frodo, and it makes my old heart very glad to see you taking such good care of him.” Sam did glow with pride and gratitude at this, even knowing their was a 'but' coming. “I knew I chose well for his companion, though I was not all together expecting young Merry and Pippin to accompany you as well.

“Nevertheless, they've proven strong of heart and great of spirit, and in Frodo's stead, _you_ chose well for him a company of loyal friends.”

At this, Sam blushed. “Thank'ee, Sir – of course, it didn't quite work out as you're saying, but I done me best for Frodo as I can. I'm awful humbled you approve of it, Sir.”

Gandalf's eyebrow quirked at the absence of Sam addressing Frodo with a title. “Yes, well,” the wizard cleared his throat, a suspicion confirmed, “all well and good, as I said. Though, there is the matter coming soon, of when Frodo will wake up.”

Sam nodded eagerly. “It will be soon, won't it, Sir?”

“It will, yes; Elrond and I have been keeping him asleep to give his body a bit longer to mend, without troubling his mind. Another day or two, we've thought.

“Now- when that time comes, I'd like to be there with Frodo, of course, to inform him of all the goings-on, where he is, the time, that sort of thing.”

Sam's subsequent nod was more tentative, trying to figure out where this was going. “That would be awful fine; you'd tell it all without so many tears as me, I'd guess.”

“And that's what I'm getting at; you, ehm...” Gandalf paused to consider the hobbit before him. He had so far read into some of Frodo's mind – to learn all that had befallen him since leaving Bag End – during which he'd stumbled across a few details he had been embarrassed to find.

Even ghosting Sam's thoughts, now, he could sense that the feelings Frodo had kept safely inside him – even during the confusing torture of his wounding – were present also in Sam, and very near the surface. They glowed with a gentle purity that touched the wizard's heart, and at length he decided to loosen up on a term he had been about to propose. “It shan't precisely be scheduled, you know; it will be whenever Frodo wakes up on his own. I'd like to be there, as I've said, and you... if you're there already, you are welcome to stay.

“Though I would like some words with Frodo on his own, I shan't send you out on his waking. I only ask you allow me to do the majority of the explaining, at first, and wait until after I've left for your – how might you say it? - ah, 'Shire talk'.”

Sam blinked, and a blush slowly crept over his cheeks. “Aye, Sir. I could do that.”

Gandalf nodded, and patted Sam on the shoulder. “There's a good lad. As I said, it won't be today; perhaps tomorrow or the next. If you aren't there, I will call you after I'm done speaking with him.”

“Thank'ee, Sir. For telling me all that, truly.”

“Not a worry, Samwise; the least I could do for you, after all you've done for this whole Ring affair. Which... I am afraid is not yet over.”

 

–

 

Long before Frodo came to the branch in the riverbed, he heard on the wind echoes of familiar voices. He knew they couldn't all be real, as they alternated between what seemed to be his parents' voices, Bilbo's, Merry's, Pippin's – and most clearly Sam's. Less frequently he thought also he could hear Gandalf, and a younger, more smooth and melodic voice, too – ancient, it seemed, but with a vigor eternal.

He could not place where they came from, until he came to the fork – before, the wind that carried them billowed from all directions around his head, serving for the time only as more company he could not quite understand.

The branch came upon him without his notice, and he blinked in surprise to suddenly stand before it, the path splitting between his left and right.

For a long while he stood, listening to the now-voiceless whisper of the wind through the flowers, and looking to each side, trying to make a decision. Initially he thought his choice would make no matter, so long as he was still going _somewhere_ forward; right seemed most the same as left, and vice-versa. Fields of wildflowers still sprawled to each side, and the level of water in each grew at the same rate – still not much, but deeper than the path behind was.

In time, however, as he looked, listened and smelled, he realized there were differences.

To the right, the path grew wider, and he knew if he followed it, he'd be going upstream in fresh water, eventually to the north. He realized also, that it was the direction from which the wind carried the voices of his love and friends – it carried as well the scents and sounds of home; tilled earth after a rain, very old trees, the twittering of birds nesting in thickets.

To the left, he knew the path led downstream to the West, and to his tongue and ears it carried the tang of salt – like tears – and the crying of seagulls. He had never known the Sea in his waking life, but many nights of late it had troubled his dreams – the night at Crickhollow, he remembered, had marked the first period in weeks it had not.

_Crickhollow_. He thought, suddenly, looking back to the right. _Bilbo, Merry, Pippin. Sam. Home._ Though he felt a great longing to return to them again, something possessed him still of curiosity and even a sense of tantalizing foreboding, about the path to the left. He felt his shoulder – now warm and mobile – tingle, as he gazed that way.

It tingled similarly, however, when a gentle wind began to blow from the right, warm and constant, curling to buffet most his left cheek and shoulder. “Frodo.” he heard, quite clearly on the air. In Sam's voice.

In that moment, he made up his mind, and started down the path to the right; the path home. Perhaps he would look upon the same path to the left at a later time, but with the choice now in his own hands, he chose right.

After, he opened his eyes.

 

–

 

The ceiling above him was strange; flat and white, but with dark beams richly carved, and beneath him was a bed. The air smelled sweet, like _athelas_ , and he could hear birds chirping.

He blinked several times, adjusting to the light filling the room, and realized the wind from his dream touched him still. Looking down and to his left, he saw Sam, lying next to him, curled around his left arm, and sharing his pillow. His dozing breaths were what billowed across his neck, shoulder and even chest – for his night gown's neck was deep and plunging.

He supposed, looking at himself, it was to more easily access the bandage on his shoulder. He then noticed with some distress, the Ring was now on a silver chain around his neck. Full awareness hadn't yet reached him, but a feeling of disappointment lingered, for it was still in his keeping, after... after something. Many somethings.

He wriggled the fingers of his left hand (which were interlaced between Sam's), relieved he could move them. “Sam?” he asked softly, squeezing his left hand, and turning his head to nuzzle Sam. “Samwise?”

Sam took a long breath, and Frodo felt him stretch, before he opened his eyes – which were deep brown, and for a moment still content and sleepy. They widened to dinner plates when they met Frodo's, and Sam's breath caught. “Frodo?” he squeaked.

“Yes? I think so. Last I checked.” The embarrassed confusion on Sam's face was delightful. “Where are we, and what's the time? I'm afraid my memory is being a bit slow today.”

“Oh, well,” Sam shifted a little, fumbling with Frodo's left hand, stroking it shyly, “you see-”

“You are in the house of Elrond, and it is ten o'clock in the morning,” said a voice, “It is the morning of October the twenty-fourth, if you want to know.”

Frodo was delighted to see Gandalf again, and they talked at some length – while Sam, as promised, remained quiet, only interjecting on occasion, for he was content enough to revel in Frodo's wakefulness.

Frodo was initially flustered to find the wizard had learned of their relationship, but calmed quickly enough when Gandalf assured him he thought they were lovely together.

By the time they'd gone well through the incident of the Ford, patching together Frodo's missing days, and speaking of Men and Lords of all sorts, Frodo's strength began to flag, and Gandalf excused himself to speak with them again, later.

Frodo lay back, sighing lengthily, before he gently tugged on Sam's shirt, pulling his gardener over him, then down, as they shared a lazy kiss. “I missed you.” he remarked after, stroking Sam's hair and admiring his eyes. They were brown, but had flecks of green and gold in them, like autumn leaves.

“I been here near enough the whole time.” said Sam, trying to be terrifically careful of Frodo's left side. Gandalf had warned, “No funny business.” until after the stitches came out, and to Sam that meant treating Frodo's whole arm as though it were spun glass.

“No, I know,” Frodo traced the line of Sam's jaw with his left hand – which was warm, now, though it shook with effort, “only I couldn't all together feel you. I... I knew you were here, I think, but I was frightened I would never see you again.”

Sam planted a kiss on Frodo's palm. “I was worried the same for you. I was more scared than I could say, when you fell at the Ford.”

Frodo's forehead creased with effort as he tried to remember, then stopped for the tide of unpleasant memories that threatened to break over him. “I'm sorry for scaring you so.”

“T'ain't your fault,” said Sam, placing a kiss on his forehead, “and anyway, done is done, and here we are in Rivendell. No need for apologies; we're all right – enough, anyway.”

Frodo hummed a soft laugh, and nodded. “Yes, I suppose so. I'm glad of it – especially as you're here with me. … Thank you, for everything.”

Sam lay down along Frodo's left side again, gathering him in his arms as before. “Ain't nothing I wouldn't have done in the first place.” he said, placing a gentle kiss on top of Frodo's shoulder, around the bandages.

Frodo glanced down at the Ring and yawned, beginning to doze. “I hope we can go home after this 'Council'. I'd like to start work on Crickhollow with you, sooner than later.”

“Aye,” Sam murmured, “starting work on the garden afore the first snow would be splendid.”

Frodo was quiet for a few moments, and Sam thought he'd fallen asleep, before he suddenly laughed. “Oh, I wonder what old Bilbo would think of us, together like this.”

“I don't think it's something he minds.”

Frodo had indeed fallen asleep, a moment too soon to catch the specific of the tense Sam had correctly chosen.


End file.
